


The Premature Burial

by AZGirl



Series: The Immortals [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Horror, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 02:08:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8426791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/pseuds/AZGirl
Summary: After so many years, it wasn't the living or the dying that was difficult, it was what came in between. A story just in time for Halloween, and set in the Immortals AU. Can be read separately from the other stories.





	1. May 1873, Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Minor references to the previous Immortals stories. The books and the television series are also fair game. 
> 
> This is part of my Immortals AU series. To read this entry, there are really only a few things you need to know:  
> \--(1) Athos, d’Artagnan, Aramis, and Porthos are immortal. I’ve not yet written the story of how they came to be like that.  
> \--(2) The first two stories, Broken Promise and Comfort of a Friend, take place in 1844, and are a mix of the novels, television series, and real history with some notes to expand on some details.  
> \--(3) WARNING: This story deals with some things that might be triggering. Please see the very end to find out why, though the title* is a huge clue. 
> 
> I hope you’ll give this story a chance despite it being AU. 
> 
> History Notes: These are denoted by an * and explained at the end. At times I did change historical facts to fit my story, but for these notes, I have made every attempt to get my details correct. If I have incorrectly noted something, please let me know and I will make changes.  
> .

**ooooooo**

“The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?”

~~~~~~~Edgar Allan Poe, _The Premature Burial_

**ooooooo**

**Prologue**

Being immortal didn’t mean that they escaped death. 

On the contrary, Death came to claim them what seemed to be all too frequently at times. After so many years, it wasn’t the living or the dying that was difficult, it was what came in between. Not what happened to their souls while they were temporarily dead, but what happened to their bodies. Being dead meant that they no longer had control over what happened to them once their hearts stopped beating. 

They couldn’t afford to be careless about their immortal states in front of what may turn out to be the wrong people, so the four of them made sure they never told anyone of their condition. They were extremely diligent in keeping their secret, and tried to be on hand for each other when one of them died for real – temporary though it was – or “died” for the purposes of changing identities. 

However, there were those times when circumstances dictated that they spent time apart from each other, scattered to the four winds, which meant that there was no one to watch your back when you died.

 

ooooooo

 

 **Chapter One: _May 1873_ , Part I**

Darkness. 

He blinked. His eyes were definitely open but inky blackness stared back at him and surrounded him. 

It was all encompassing, and yet he did not fear it. 

The last time he remembered, it was still daylight. It must be night now, for darkness was part of its domain after all. 

He must’ve been tired and fallen asleep, though something about that thought felt very wrong to him. That thought was not the only one bothering him. 

What was more disturbing was the fact that he was having trouble remembering much of anything at the moment. Odd sensations wove their way up and down his limbs, and in and around his entire body. His mind was a jumble of hundreds of years of memories trying and failing to present themselves in their proper order. 

He didn’t understand what was going on, and his instincts were saying that he needed to leave wherever he was, but he couldn’t seem to get any of his muscles to cooperate with what he wanted them to do. He wanted to speak, but couldn’t push the words past his tongue and through his lips. 

Closing his eyes, he hoped that when he opened them again, things would make more sense. 

ooooooo 

When he next opened his eyes, his mind was somewhat clearer, though he was still confused about his surroundings. Even now it was completely dark, and the air felt thick and heavy. 

Was it the same night? Or, had he slept an entire day away? 

It was impossible for him to determine at this point. What he could ascertain was that his memories were in better shape than the last time, seeming to be in the proper order again. 

He now believed he understood the cause of his previous symptoms, though it seemed like his lungs were still not quite working properly. 

The only thing that explained the odd sensations of before was that he must have died and had come back to life – again. How many times did this make? He’d lost track a long time ago. 

Coming back was almost worse than dying in the first place. Dying meant the loss of friendships and anyone he had been close to. It meant having to start all over with a new identity, and having to get used to being called by a name that was not originally his own. 

Because of his previous life, the friendships between him and his brothers had been strained for many years, though for the last decade or so, things had been more or less back to normal between them. None of his friends had been thrilled that their original lives had been put on display for the masses, but Athos and d’Artagnan had especially not taken well to being so openly reminded of the devastating losses of those lives. 

He had been forgiven his first transgression, but he could not much help the two subsequent ones, which truly tested the bonds of their brotherhood. Being a doppelganger to someone who had died outside of France, had given him the opportunity to explore a side of himself that he’d not been able to indulge in the past. 

Despite not being on the best of terms with his best friends during that lifetime, he had enjoyed that life’s vocation. And he had continued to live that life for another 20 years before having to pretend to be an almost seventy-year-old man* and mounting debts had prompted him to give it up. 

Because he had been so well known in France, he had decided to go across the ocean and start over in the Americas. Since soldering was what he knew best, he had joined the United States army, calling himself Edgar Stapleton*. 

The final pieces of his jumbled memories were finally falling back into their proper place. His squad had been ordered out on patrol, and he had been assigned an ornery horse to ride. Not long after they’d left camp, the blasted horse had suddenly decided it no longer wanted a rider. Despite his best efforts to control the beast, the horse had managed to throw him off. 

After that things were a little hazy. He clearly remembered the pain, especially in his head. He also vaguely recalled hearing the phrases “severe contusion” and “skull fracture.” His last true memories, before waking in the absolute darkness, were of the doctor telling him that they were going to operate, mentioning something about trepanning*. 

Maybe he was wrong and those sensations he had thought were signaling his latest resurrection, were just feelings associated with waking up from a deep, deep stupor due to his head injury. 

Without thought, he reached up to itch his nose, but his still-uncoordinated hand hits something solid and wooden just above him. As fast as lightning, a terrifying thought entered his mind. 

He stretched his hand upward once more, and again, it hit solid wood. He knocked on the wood and heard a dull echo. His terrifying thought suddenly became a horrific reality. 

He had been buried. Whether they buried him alive or had thought he had truly been dead didn’t matter. 

It would explain a lot of things, like the complete blackness surrounding him. It would explain the sense of feeling confined since he had awakened the first time. 

Being used to rough sleeping arrangements throughout all his years in the military, he had not given his “bed” a second thought, but now… Now, he knew it was his coffin. 

_No, no, no, no…._

Panic set in. Pounding on the coffin lid above him, he screamed and yelled for help, hoping against hope that someone would hear him and free him from his final resting place – a place that would be an eternal prison for his immortal body. 

Trying to pry a board from the lid of what he supposed was a coffin that was little more than a simple, wooden box, the only thing he accomplished was to allow some of the dirt above to rain down upon him. His coffin was now full of that particular odor of moist, moldering earth. His panicked thoughts then wondered what ground dwellers, insects and the like, had been allowed entry because of his actions. Immediately, he forced his mind away from that line of thinking. 

His breathing was still panicked, but he was beginning to notice how much of a struggle it was becoming to draw in a breath of air. 

Air!* 

ooooooo 

_To be continued._

**ooooooo**

 

 **History Notes** : 

**_Title: The Premature Burial_ :** The title and some of the story was inspired by the short story of the same name written by Edgar Allan Poe; it was first published in 1844 in _The Philadelphia Dollar Newspaper_. 

**_“[A]lmost seventy-year-old man…”_** : This paragraph and the two ones preceding it reference things mentioned in the first story in the Immortals AU – _Broken Promise._

**_Edgar Stapleton_ :** One of the few proper names mentioned in Edgar Allan Poe’s story, _The Premature Burial_. 

**_Trepanning_ :** (Warning: Potential Trigger!) According to the _BBC History Magazine_ , trepanning is one of the oldest surgical procedures in existence, with evidence of the procedure dating back to Neolithic times. It is a process whereby a hole is drilled in the skull. One of the purposes for the surgery was to relieve pressure on the skull after an injury. Another purpose may have been to give a trapped demon a hole to escape. 

**_Air!_ :** (Warning: Potential Trigger!) According to the _Popular Science_ website, the length of time someone could survive buried alive varies on several factors: health of the individual, their size, the amount of air available in the coffin, etc. I am going with the conceit that the buried person was dead when he was buried, prolonging the length of time he could survive. And I am also ignoring the fact that an inexpensive coffin would have likely collapsed under the weight of the dirt above it, crushing the buried person and immediately eliminating what remained of their air supply.

 

**ooooooo**

**ooooooo**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

 

 **Trigger Warning** : (Spoilers) This story deals with someone essentially being buried alive. The character was dead when buried, but because they are immortal, they revive, suffocate, and die more than once. Some details about trepanning, burials, and suffocations are described further in the History Notes. You might want to skip this one if you think this might be a trigger.


	2. May 1873, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  See the end of Chapter One for the Trigger Warning.  
> .

**Chapter Two: _May 1873_ , Part II**

How could he be so stupid? With such a small, confined space, he was going to run out of air sooner rather than later and die once again. 

He forced himself to calm at that thought, knowing he needed to last as long as possible, so that his friends might find him and get him out of this hole he’d been buried in. Perhaps they would soon be there, though he knew it was wishful thinking. 

His breathing slowed, but the air was still noticeably thicker. Time was most definitely not on his side. 

Suffocation* was inevitable and imminent. Would this death be his last? Or, would he be forever caught up in an endless cycle of death and resurrection, suffocating over and over forever? 

Panic and fear warred within him, wanting to take over again, wanting to push him towards what may be his final death all that much quicker. Instead, he managed to push aside those thoughts yet again. Right then, he would think of only this death, refusing to think past this point. 

He gasped for breath; it was becoming more and more difficult to draw any air into his lungs and he was feeling more and more sleepy. There was a tightness in his chest, and he found his thoughts drifting. 

Forcing himself to concentrate, he decided that, if these were his last moments of his long life, he would think only about those he cared about most – his brothers. 

Aramis, Athos, and d’Artagnan…  He missed his brothers in this newest life of his. 

Because his company of soldiers had been on the road towards a new posting, and considering the color of his skin, Porthos knew he had been extremely fortunate to have been buried in a coffin instead of his body being placed directly in the ground. His commanding officer had treated all of his men equally, regardless of their skin color or background. In that respect – and the man’s temper – his Captain had reminded him of Tréville. 

Realizing his mind had drifted, Porthos forced his thoughts back to his brothers. 

Regardless of how well they were – or were not – getting along in any current year, one rule that none of them had never dared to break was to let the others know the name of their current alias and their general location. Due to a situation beyond their control, they had been fated to be brothers for eternity, cursed to immortality and thus needed to be able to keep an eye out for each other, even if only from a distance.  

His death would be reported, but would word ever reach his friends? Or would his disappearance off the face of the earth forever be a mystery to them? Would they think he had forsaken them, abandoning them to live his immortal life without the company of his brothers? 

Porthos gasped and attempted to draw air into his struggling lungs. 

He prayed that, if this ordinary coffin, deep under the moldering earth was to be his final resting place, it would be his final death. He had lived well beyond his normal lifespan, and had been places and done much more than he could’ve ever imagined he would do. Porthos was content to find out what lay beyond the immortal life that had been forced upon him and his friends. 

Trying to breathe in, he found that there was no more air. Panic returned. 

He didn’t know if he could wake up without air to sustain him, and he hoped he wouldn’t find out. 

The end was almost upon him, and he was feeling beyond tired at this point. 

Death was coming. Perhaps this time, it would keep him. 

Visions of his brothers flashed before his eyes and the panic disappeared. 

With one last gasp for non-existent air, he closed his eyes and surrendered to his coming death. 

ooooooo 

Sometime later, Porthos opened his eyes and he attempted to fill his lungs with air, but found that he couldn’t. 

Darkness and silence surrounded him. He was confused, wondering what was going on. 

He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know where he was or what had happened to put him in the dark. 

There was a last gasp for air before his heart stopped and he knew no more. 

In a matter of seconds, he had come back to life, only to lose it again. 

ooooooo 

Thus, a vicious cycle began. 

A gasp in the absolute darkness. 

Confusion reigning in the silence. 

Sometimes there was panic. 

Sometimes fear. 

Often, there was both. 

Regardless, there was no air and Death once again attempted to claim him… 

…and failed… 

…too many times to count. 

ooooooo 

_To be concluded._

**ooooooo**

 

 **History Note:**

**_Suffocation_ :** (Warning: Potential Trigger!) Some information from the _Popular Science_ website… As the carbon dioxide builds up, it would make you sleepy. You’d fall into a coma before your heart stopped. You might feel the suffocation, but you wouldn’t be conscious during those last moments.


	3. May 1873, Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  See the end of Chapter One for the Trigger Warning.  
> .

**Chapter Three: _May 1873_ , Part III**

Sometime later, Porthos opened his eyes, and he attempted to fill his lungs with air, but found it an impossible feat. 

Darkness and silence surrounded— 

No. 

Wait. 

Had something broken the silence? Or was he imagining hearing something? 

Death came for him before he could find out. 

ooooooo 

Light. 

The kind that indicated that dawn was quickly approaching. 

Blinking confirmed that his eyes were indeed open, and he was _not_ imaging the light surrounding him. 

Taking a breath, he coughed at the sudden inrush of fresh air. 

It was light and he could breathe. What had—? 

“It’s about time you woke up,” a nearby voice said, interrupting his thoughts. “I hate the hair by the way.” 

Porthos grinned widely and tried to reply, but only a pathetic croak came out of his mouth. A canteen appeared in front of his face, and Aramis helped him to take a few sips of cool water. He didn’t bother to complain when it was taken away long before he had slaked his thirst. After so many years, he knew it was for the best. 

After a minute or so, he was allowed a few more sips of water. 

“I needed to look completely different than Dumas*,” Porthos answered as if it hadn’t been several minutes since Aramis’s remark. “Besides, I wouldn’t talk. The lack of beard on your face is downright scary.” 

Aramis laughed and offered the canteen again, but Porthos pushed it aside so that he could hug his best friend tight to him. 

“Brother, thank you. I thought I was going to be stuck down there forever,” he quietly said into Aramis’s ear. 

They kept hold of each other for at least a couple of minutes, long enough for his previously unnoticed trembling to subside. 

Aramis patted his back a couple of times and pulled back, offering the canteen once more. 

“How—? How long?” Porthos asked. He bowed his head in dread of the answer. 

None of them had been able to figure out the exact how’s and why’s to their immortality. Reanimation times varied with the severity of the damage to their bodies which had caused their deaths. He had no idea how long it would’ve been in between rebirths when the cause of death was suffocation like he had experienced. Porthos shuddered when he tried and failed to remember how many times he had died in that wooden coffin. 

When he looked up into Aramis’s expressive, brown eyes, his friend said, “Brother, I think it’s best you don’t know.” 

It was probably a good thing he couldn’t remember, and he fervently hoped that he never would. 

Porthos nodded. “Alright.” He filled his lungs with fresh air and asked, “Then, how did you find me?” 

“Athos and his newspapers*,” Aramis replied. “Our friend would never admit it, but I know he takes up subscriptions to papers where each of us has settled at any given time.” 

Aramis stood and stretched out a hand. Porthos grabbed it and used it as leverage to gain his own feet. He stumbled a little, but Aramis caught him, stabilizing him until he could stand on his own. 

“He saw a notice in the paper and sent me a telegram*. I had arrived here in America shortly after you’d been deployed to your new post. I was just taking my time deciding what to do next – whether I would follow you or not – when I got it.” 

Aramis nodded towards a buggy* tied up a short distance away. Porthos started towards it, but stumbled after a couple of steps. Ducking under one of his arms, Aramis helped to support him. 

“I raced in this direction, knowing that every moment…” Aramis paused and cleared his throat. “Well, suffice it to say, I found you.” 

Porthos briefly tightened the arm around Aramis. “Thank you seems so inadequate, but—” 

“Porthos, you _never_ have to thank me, or any of us, for something like this. We are brothers.”—Aramis smiled—“All for one, right?” 

He grinned and nodded. “And one for all.” 

When they passed some gravestones on their way out of the small cemetery, he stopped and looked back towards his own former gravesite. 

Dirt was scattered haphazardly all around it, as was a shovel, and pieces of wood, which were presumably from the coffin lid. 

Porthos closed his eyes and swayed a little when flashes of his recent ordeal assaulted him. 

He felt Aramis tugging him towards the buggy.  “Porthos, stop. You don’t need to look back anymore. Look forward. Athos and d’Artagnan are on their way,* and we will all be together again soon.” 

“Really?” he asked, feeling more of the horror of what had happened to him lift with the good news. 

“Yes, we’re to meet up at this lovely hotel in New York City…” 

As Aramis babbled on about him needing civilian clothes, a new identity, and whatever else came to his mind, Porthos couldn’t help but grin at his brother’s enthusiasm. 

He glanced towards the now-risen sun, and reveled in its bright, warm glow. Not too long ago, buried in that box, he had thought he would never see the sun again. Now, there would be countless more times he would see it, and soon all of his brothers would be there with him to witness some of those sunrises. 

As Aramis helped him into the buggy, his friend relayed the news that they would have to camp out for the night to avoid running into someone who might recognize him. Porthos pretended to be irritated, but he really wasn’t, and his brother likely knew it. 

He had figured out what Aramis was doing and was grateful beyond words. He wasn’t sure how he’d react to the dark, confined space of a small hotel room like they would most likely find in the immediate area. Sleeping out in the open, under the stars and before a campfire, was infinitely more preferable. 

He would bask in the joyful anticipation of seeing d’Artagnan and Athos again. He would have Aramis to keep him company and plenty of fresh air to fill his lungs. 

With all of that to keep his mind occupied, Porthos would be free – at least for one night – of anything that reminded him of his premature burial. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

 

**History Notes**

**_Dumas_ :** The author, Alexandre Dumas was born in 1802 and died on 5 December 1870, in Puys, France. He was buried in the cemetery of Villers-Cotterêts, but in 2002, his body was moved to the Panthéon in Paris. I decided on placing this story in 1873, because I figured that nearly three years was long enough for Porthos to be separated from his friends.         (Spoilers!!) In the first Immortals AU story, _Broken Promise_ , which takes place in 1844, Porthos’s alias is revealed to be the author Alexandre Dumas. When the others discovered that he was writing a story about their time as Musketeers, much angst and drama ensued. Porthos as Dumas wrote three novels collectively known as the D’Artagnan Romances: _The Three Musketeers, Twenty Years After,_ and _The Vicomte de Bragelonne_. Between 1844 and 1850, all three novels were serialized in _Le Siècle,_ a daily newspaper published from 1836 to 1932.  Digitized issues are available online through the Bibliothèque nationale de France (BnF).  

**_“Athos and his newspapers…”_** _:_ This is a reference to Chapter One of _Broken Promise_. 

**_“[S]ent me a telegram…”_** _:_ The things you learn because of a plot point in a story… The first successful transatlantic cable was completed on 16 August 1858 between Queen Victoria of England and U.S. President James Buchanan. The cable line that delivered that message failed fairly quickly, but the first more-permanent telegraphic line across the Atlantic was laid in 1866. 

**_Buggy_ :** According to the _Encyclopedia Britannica_ : A buggy was “usually pulled by one horse…By the mid-19th century, the term had come to the United States and the buggy had become a four-wheeled carriage for two passengers.” 

**_“Athos and d’Artagnan are on their way…_** ”: More things you learn because it might be needed for a story. I was curious about how long a transatlantic crossing by ship took. By the 1860s, with the introduction of iron hulls, compound steam engines and screw propulsion, crossing times were significantly reduced to about eight or nine days. Wooden sailing ships took much longer, about six weeks, to cross, with bad weather more than doubling that time.

**Author's Note:**

> .  
>  Many thanks to Celticgal1041 for her help with proofing and coming up with an idea for the summary. Remaining mistakes are my fault. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
